


Your Foot Falls Down Through the Air

by ManicMoose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ambiguity, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Background Relationships, Car Accidents, Character Death, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Future Fic, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Past Underage, Stilinski Family Feels, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/ManicMoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. ... It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.” ― Lemony Snicket</p><p>If anyone, Derek should be used to this; if it's even the kind of thing that you can get used to. But apparently it's not, and he's evidently reached his arbitrary limit for it, because he's finally losing his goddamn mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things that Happen to Other People

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted Teen Wolf fic. I'm working on a much longer AU and suddenly this poured out by accident on the side. I didn't use the Major Character Death warning because while it does happen, things are slightly more complicated than that. I do, however, want to make sure to warn for possible triggers. Though not everything happens in this chapter, I've detailed in the endnotes the specifics (as indicated by tags) for those who'd like to check before reading. Canon-divergent from around 3A(ish), because hey, characters I actually care about! Takes place in the not-so-distant future, when Scott & Co. are in their late twenties/early thirties. For those of you who are detail-oriented, as is vaguely referenced in the story, I inserted Beacon Hills into the place of Paradise, CA, location-wise.
> 
> Unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own! If you decide to dive in after all this- thanks!

**October.**

     It’s late; that odd, in-between hour that nothing particularly good tends to come out of. The only light in the room is the irritating glow of the alarm clock, and determined slivers of light creeping in around the blinds. Working nights in late spring, Derek would have been be on his fourth- maybe fifth- cup of coffee by this time. He’d be reaching that point where he’d be starting to fantasize about the cozy flannel sheets of his bed. About going home to crawl in next to Stiles, fast asleep and snuffling softly; tangling their feet together before dropping off to sleep. It might be better to be at work now. He turns the idea over in his head, of seeing if anyone on currently on the night shift would like a trade. It’s something to think about. In the meantime, he stares listlessly up at the ceiling, watching a beam swell and arch smoothly across the room before fading away abruptly- car headlights. His new aversion causes his heart thump awkwardly at just the sight of them. It reminds him of the challenge it had been, working up to driving at night again; even now it still makes him feel jittery and unsettled. That shift trade is definitely out of the question. He should have remembered, but he gets confused sometimes; forgets things. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes before flipping on to his side. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep on his side. Maybe not. Trying to not think about how much you need to fall asleep is an unsurprisingly foolproof method for staying awake.

     The sheets rustle behind him and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly, like that will somehow help. His stomach swoops, the fine hairs along the his neck and forearms stand on end as goosebumps creep across his skin. _No,_ he tries coaching himself. _This isn’t real._ But as far as any of his senses can tell, it is. And it’s the anticipation of this that keeps him awake every night. He spares a second’s thought for the prescription sitting in the centre console of his cruiser in the driveway. He probably should at least give them a shot. It’s not likely that they could make things worse. But it’s too late for them right now; the sheets rustle regardless, and the empty side of the bed dips. He feels the solid press of a cotton-clad chest against his back. Cool feet tangle with his and a hand reaches over his side, scratching lightly at the trail of hair below his belly button.

     “Trouble sleeping baby?”

     Yeah, he’s been having trouble sleeping. And He’s got a pretty damn good reason for it too. He’s pretty sure that anyone would have trouble sleeping, if their dead husband kept slipping into their bed at night. Though he imagines for most, it would probably be a significantly more fear-based reaction keeping them alert. The fact that it’s the _waiting_ that keeps him awake- that’s what assures Derek that he’s really fucking lost it. He shuffles backward, better settling his body against the warmth length behind him with silent enthusiasm. Snug in his role of the little spoon, he’s asleep before he can even count to ten.

**-**

**August.**

     Derek’s always scoffed at that ridiculous ‘life flashing before your eyes’ bullshit. He’s pretty sure that he’s as well acquainted with near-death experiences as it’s possible to be, without actually being dead. Flashbacks have never been a feature of them. But, apparently, there really is a first time for everything. Because here he is, blinded by light, as his brain frantically flickers through it all in the span of a second. It’s not his whole _life_ , granted, but every last goddamn minute of _this_ particular day. All of them leading up to the one. It plays out crisp and clear in his mind, like a movie, a story that happened to someone else. It’s disbelief more than dread that hijacks his thoughts; that this isn’t actually happening. Because this is something that happens to _other_ people. All of the, frankly _excessive,_ fatalistic scenarios that Derek has mentally prepared for, and he hadn’t even considered this one.

     They’d driven to the multiplex in Chico, to catch some darkly funny indie flick. Beacon Hills Cinema was too small to run anything but a handful of the big blockbusters. Stiles had been looking forward to for months, so Derek had wanted to indulge him, instead of waiting until it came out on Netflix.

     It ran late enough that, by the time they’d gotten out, the parking lot was mostly empty. The rain clouds that had hung heavy the whole day had finally made good on their promise; the asphalt transformed into wet velvet. When they raced to the car, streetlights winked at them from all sides, glistening off puddles and rain-sprinkled vehicles. Stiles had decided to fix the outcome, body-checking Derek just as they closed in on the back bumper. It hadn’t exactly worked out in his favour though. The jostle had sent the keys flying, and they’d had to hunt for them in the dark puddles around the car, laughing breathlessly the whole while. They were drenched by the time they climbed inside, shaking the excess water from their hair like dogs. Stiles had promptly insisted they swing through the In-N-Out drive-thru for a late night snack before heading home. Partially to warm their bones, and partially because Beacon Hills’ lack of In-N-Out in was ‘ _practically an affront to our California heritage Derek’_.  ‘Snack’, naturally, had translated into a full meal. The entirety of which Stiles moaned through in torment, torn between his belief in supporting local business and his deep, abiding love for In-N-Out. Derek had rolled his eyes at the display pointedly enough to make himself momentarily dizzy.

     After eating, they’d both come to the same conclusion about the rain-shrouded seclusion of their parking spot. It had obviously demanded some taking advantage of, with wandering hands and mouths. Stiles kept stopping to laugh over how much Derek’s burger left him tasting like pickles ( _Oh my god, seriously, it’s like I’m getting to second base with a Vlasic. I’ll never be able to eat a pickle again without getting a boner)_ but how absurdly sexy he still managed to be despite of it. Despite Stiles’ best attempt at rounding to third, everyone’s jeans remained firmly zipped. Tempting as it was, Derek didn’t even want to _risk_ becoming the first deputy in Beacon Hills’ history to have to explain to his boss and _father-in-law_ , the precise details of his arrest _._ Stiles had tried reassuring him that the Sheriff would at least appreciate Derek being arrested for public indecency with _him_ , and ‘ _not like, a hooker or something’_. It hadn’t in the least inspired Derek to give in. By the time Stiles had finally given up on his intrepid quest, the rain had petered down to a sprinkle and their clothes were mostly dry.

     The night air had been warm, despite the drizzle. Derek had rolled down the windows a crack, to air out the steamy interior. Stiles caterwauled along to the radio as they drove, changing the words gleefully, just to drive Derek nuts. He’d turned toward Derek in his seat, laughing at his grimace over an especially terrible line. Derek tried to maintain stoic ignorance as long as possible, before he finally gave in and turned to snap playfully at Stiles fingertips as they’d caressed the side of his face.

     It was just in time to catch sight of the bright flash of headlights as they appeared over Stiles' shoulder, throwing him into silhouette against a white-hot halo. And, as the image seared itself into his corneas, his brain launched into it’s frenzied little flipbook.

     One single, ephemeral second before impact.

     Derek used to roll his eyes when Stiles used words like that. _Ephemeral? Really Stiles?_ He chalked it up to being a mildly pretentious quirk that came hand-in-hand with Stiles’ Journalism degree. Stiles would retaliate by calling him a heathen, or a caveman, and maybe even work in a dog joke. _Not all of us are content to grunt and snarl. It’s called verbalization Derek; maybe one day your kind will evolve far enough to achieve it._ He thinks he understands it now. ‘Brief’ doesn’t do it justice. It doesn’t fully communicate the weight of it of the moment; how quickly irrevocable change can take place. A split second delineates life into _before_ and _after._

    His palm makes contact with the soft cotton front of Stiles’ shirt just before everything cuts out.

**-**

     After that it’s all fuzzy; chaotic snippets instead of anything cohesively linear. There’s the sensation of hanging upside down, and a pressure against his chest, like on a rollercoaster. The smell of gasoline mixes with blood in the air, and he thinks he hears sirens- endlessly looping wails paired with flashing lights. After that, there’s shouting, footsteps, and the loud drone of generator. Metal crunches and screeches. The overwhelming pain keeps consciousness at bay for the most part. It yanks him back under again almost as soon as he surfaces, like a gator drowning prey. He comes to momentarily in the back of an ambulance, strapped securely to a board, movements restricted, and with something in his mouth. Strangers in uniforms work urgently over him, mercifully keeping the bright fluorescent glow out of his stinging eyes. He can see their mouths moving, but he can’t grasp what they’re saying. It’s just noise.

     “Hold on Babe.” A familiar face leans into Derek’s line of vision, and whispers urgently against his ear. The words are crisp and distinct, drowning out the din. Relief runs over Derek like a flush. Stiles’ hair is matted wetly against the right side of his head, and there’s a shadow of what promises to be a pretty spectacular bruise along his temple. There’s a small smear of blood across his cheek, trailing from a cut high on his cheekbone, but for the most part he looks fairly unscathed. One hand reaches over the red head-support to stroke, feather-light, across Derek’s cheek. Stiles must be crammed awkwardly in the corner, out of the way of the paramedics. “You’re stubborn as a goddamn mule. Overcoming that personality flaw right this moment would be really inconvenient, okay?”

     He wants to tell Stiles not to worry- you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. That would make him laugh. He tries, but all he manages is a gurgle before the darkness overtakes him.

**-**

     There’s no way of determining how much time lapses after that. He drifts in a heavily sedated fog, to the sound of Stiles talking at him incessantly, like he’s trying to _irritate_ Derek awake. Of course, if anyone were at all likely to have success with that tactic, it _would_ be Stiles. He gives up eventually though. Or at least Derek assumes that he does, as the sound of his chatter grows quiet and faraway, then fades away entirely. And then Derek is alone.

     It’s not unlike floating in a lake of indeterminable depth. His only awareness is comprised of a still nothingness, and the vaguest sense of unease. From time to time, he picks up the murmur of voices again, but they’re garbled and distant, the way sound is under water. He tries to strain toward them, but the effort is always in vain. He grows exhausted quickly and gives in to overwhelming urge to sink backward into the waiting arms of sleep. So he drifts; the oblivion a soothing balm between fever-dreams.

    When they do creep over him, he recognizes the dreams for what they are- for the most part. The surreal fluidity usually gives them away; time and place flowing into one another, in that especially vivid way they only do in the ill or drugged. Other times he isn’t at all sure, and uncertainty leaves him ensnared by suffocating web. Either way, he’s along for the ride, powerless to influence or escape them. If he’s lucky, the dreams are pleasantly cathartic: running freely through the woods as a wolf, or resting his head on Laura’s lap in the grass of Central Park, her fingers combing gently through his hair.

    But Derek’s never had much luck.

 


	2. Something Not Quite Right

_      There’s heat beating down on him, with an intensity that makes his skin prickle with discomfort. He opens his eyes, then snaps them closed again immediately against the blazing sunlight. In hindsight, he definitely should have put more thought into that one. He’s not sure how long he’s been standing here, but it’s obviously been long enough that to make his blood feel like it’s starting to boil. When he lifts a hand to block the sun from his eyes before peering out cautiously again, the rays warm his palm immediately. It takes him a moment get his bearings, and realize where he is- his old loft.  _

_      The unobstructed sunlight is streaming through it’s massive windows, but the panes are so dusty and streaked that he can’t make anything out through it besides the bright glow of light. It reminds him why, even discounting all the death and chaos, he’s never missed this pretentious dump. Leaving it for his cozy, fourth floor walk-up near the station had been one of the best decisions he’d ever made. He spares a fond thought for the flower-boxes on the balcony railing;  the poppy-red blackout curtains; and delightful, elderly Mrs. Goldstein, with her four affectionate cats. It was where Stiles had first moved in with him, and where they’d stayed until they bought the house. Where the loft had been coldly spartan, the apartment had been warm- the first place he’d felt happy in years. He wants to be there, wants to go home, but he keeps ending up everywhere but. He doesn’t know why he can’t find his way back. He knows there’s something more to it. There’s a feeling almost like a scab where those pleasant memories are. Everytime he tries to pick at it though, he’s so quickly distracted. It’s like his own damn mind is working against him. As the sweat that’s built up along his hairline begins to trickle downward, he rubs it away from his eyes with a growl. _

_      Christ, it’s fucking hot.  _

_      Sticky-hot; the way that it gets in August, when the air conditioner is on the fritz and the humidity is through the roof. Too hot to think. It muffles everything, like a strange fog of silence. There’s a sharp, distinct smell to it that he can’t immediately place. He rolls the scent around in his mouth for a moment to pinpoint it- ozone. His shirt is quickly plastering itself against his damp back, so he reaches up to yank it off over his head. He turns to toss it in the hamper, but finds the loft has been stripped almost entirely bare. His bed is the only thing left, set squarely in the centre of the cavernous room like a small island.  His eyebrows inch up his forehead. An island of debauchery, apparently. _

_      Stiles is stretched out sinuously, unabashedly naked against the thin sheets. He stares back at Derek silently, face half buried in the soft curve of his elbow. His eyes glow molten in the sunlight, the heat in them sending a flush of arousal over Derek’s skin. The image is slightly off though, the lean lines of his body distinctly youthful, in a way that Derek only vaguely recalls. And definitely not in this context.  _

_      It should put some hesitation into Derek’s step, but he moves toward him unconsciously, as if drawn by a magnetic force. He lets his shirt fall to the floor, forgotten, as he pads barefoot to the edge of the bed. Stiles pushes against his hands like a needy cat when he reaches out to him, humming with pleasure. He fidgets slightly with impatience as Derek takes a moment to cradle his face, disregarding everything else on offer. It’s sweetly fresh-faced between Derek’s palms, and he stares at it, considering, as he brushes his thumbs across it. The angles of it aren’t the beautifully sharp ones that Derek’s committed carefully to memory, fastidiously distributing kisses along every inch. These are soft-edged, almost rounded, as though they haven’t quite been grown into yet. Still beautiful, but somehow unfinished. Despite of it, Derek finds himself setting a knee against the mattress to climb forward onto the threadbare fitted sheet. Stiles melts beneath him, welcoming, arms pulling Derek in towards a demanding mouth and chasing away any hesitation. _

_      He loses himself in the mindless heat of it, their bodies twisting together, tangling up in the topsheet. It grows dark so quickly here. Or, at least it seems to- the luminous glow of moonlight swiftly replacing the scorching sun in that had warmed them only moments ago. In the darkness, with sweat-slick skin pressing eagerly against him, it’s easy to forget. To put his hands on this Stiles in ways that he had never let himself consider in reality. Not until after he’d returned from his second year at college, newly settled in his skin. This Stiles tastes the same; moans quietly into the heat of Derek’s mouth the same way that he always has. His body squirms against Derek's the same way, searching desperately for friction. Derek wants him so badly. Wants to get inside him and take him apart piece by glorious piece; watch him gasp from it. _

_      This is his darkest desire brought to life: the burn that he’s always felt for Stiles, but never allowed himself to acknowledge. It edges too close to the memory of Kate. It feels wrong.  Lecherous and seedy in a way that their relationship as adults never has been. Their age difference will always be there, but it’s negligible now. This is not negligible. Stiles is unquestionably seventeen again, but as far as Derek can tell, none of his own thirty-odd years have dropped off.  He looks down and startles to find that his claws are extended, scraping precariously against tender skin.This is just a fragile human boy, writhing in the clutches of a monster. It twists Derek’s stomach; makes him feel sick. He breathes deep to try settle himself before he pulls his hands away. _

_      “Wait. We shouldn’t- ” He sits back on his heels between the sprawl of Stiles’ legs, grabbing Stiles’ hands from where they’re trying to work their way under his waistband. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” _

_      “ Why not?” Stiles whines in protest, wriggling his fingers stubbornly from Derek’s grasp.  _

“ _ Because. You’re too young.” _

_      “No, I’m not.” Something dark and vulpine ripples beneath Stiles’ features as he sits up, his eyes glinting in the streetlights. “I want you,” he insists, moving forward in an attempt to slip his body close to Derek’s again. _

_      “Yes, you are.” He rounds his hands around Stiles’ shoulders and forces a safe distance between them.  “Fuck. Just get dressed, okay? Let me take you home.” He clambers away to the end of the bed, and drops his feet to the floor before shoving his hands through his hair. Stiles follows determinedly, snaking his arms around Derek’s shoulders from behind. _

_      “You want it too. Why pretend you don’t?” his voice lifts and morphs as he speaks, growing into something feminine. “Destroying things is what you’re best at, isn’t it Derek?” _

_      “What?” The bottom of Derek’s stomach drops away as he twists and finds Kate, not Stiles, smirking maliciously back. He flinches in revulsion, and tries wrenching out of her arms, but she holds him tight with impossible strength. As she squeezes him close, he can feel the damp warmth radiating from between her thighs, her breasts pressing snug against his back. She nips at his earlobe playfully as she leans her face in close to his. He feels small in her arms; helpless. This was what she’d really gotten off on the whole time. Not him, young and eager, or the things that they did together. It was all about being the predator, and playing with her prey. _

_      “Where ya goin’, handsome? We’ve got the perfect view for the show.” _ _   
_

_      His heart rabbits in his chest as she grips his chin and forces his face upward at what she wants him to see. The loft is gone; replaced by a painfully familiar clearing within the preserve. Dew-damp grass tickles against the soles of his feet as he takes in the sight of the Hale house, whole and unburnt, nestled silently among the trees. The lights are off, and the moonlight reflects off the window panes like eyes. With the low hum of the forest around them, it’s the picture of peacefulness. It’s jarring for more than the obvious reason; he hasn’t seen it as anything but a dangerous pile of rubble in nearly two decades. As much as he loathes to admit it, he’s almost forgotten exactly what it looked like, the image in his memory hazy and faded. The disorientation leaves him dizzy and nauseated, like getting off a spinning carnival ride. He wants his mother suddenly. To cry out for her, and to be pulled into the safety and comfort of her embrace. _

_      A flash of red in the darkness catches his eye and, miraculously, there she is; just behind the glass of the front window. Across the dark expanse of the yard, her face is somewhat shrouded, but he can see that it’s set in disappointment. As his eyes adjust, Laura and Stiles seem to materialize from the shadows on either side of her, the moonlight edging gradually across their features. Their mouths move, but no matter how hard he strains his ears, he can’t catch the faintest hint of sound. All he can hear is his own harsh breathing, and Kate’s pleased hum against his ear. When the flames first appear it’s almost a surprise. They start slowly; teasingly creeping up the edges of the drapes. They breathe new life into his struggle. He thrashes, trying to break free of Kate’s grasp; to tear himself out of the bed and run to them. But her arms only clamp down harder, and her knees bracket his hips, vice-like, to hold him in place. The fire may have started slowly, but it quickly blazes out of control. Inside, they pound at the glass, mouths gaping in silent screams as their skin bubbles and blackens. He can’t hear a thing, but he can smell it. The thick acrid smell of the smoke; charred flesh with the underlying hint of gasoline. He screams himself hoarse as he watches, tears dampening his face as he begs, pleads with Kate to let him go. Offers her anything, everything, in exchange.  _

_      “I want  _ **_this_ ** _.” She laughs into his ear. "I love to watch, don't you?" _

_      As the flames reach the roof and begin scorching the eaves black, she lets go. It’s so unexpected that he inadvertently slumps backward for a instant, muscles slack and unprepared. But then he launches himself forward across the lawn to bolt up the steps. He throws himself against the door singlemindedly, breaking through as the last peal of Kate’s laughter rings out behind him.  _

_      Inside the strange silence finally drops away, the roar of the fire drowning out all other sound. The front hall is inexplicably untouched, except for the smoke insidiously permeating the air, but to his left the living room is a raging inferno. He screams their names frantically into the impenetrable wall of fire, but the only response is the crackle of the flames licking at wood. There’s no sign of life, or anything else for that matter, but he screams anyways, howling into the flames.  _

_      A wet splatter against his cheekbone makes him look up. Despite the heat blazing inches from his face, moisture gathers inexplicably along the ceiling beams. As droplets swell into large enough beads, they drip down, splashing against the hardwood. They swell faster by the second, and as the dribble rapidly becomes a downpour, water wells up between the floorboards. Like a child’s toy suddenly immersed in the bath, water gushes in from every side. Pouring in through the open doorway, and spilling down the hall staircase in a cascade. The swell rises steadily, and the flames hiss as it quenches their terrible hunger. Relief shudders through him as steam replaces fire. Relief that’s immediately quashed as the water begins to recede as quickly as it appeared. As the steam begins to dissipate, it reveals nothing but a blackened husk littered by mounds of dark ash. They’re gone; the only traces left behind swirling away on the rushing water around his ankles. He collapses to his knees and presses his face down against his hands to sob. Once he exhausts himself, he stays put; shivers limply on the charred and water-logged floor. He lets his eyes drift closed just before a sudden noise jars him alert. Footsteps clatter with a frantic urgency on the front steps and through the hall behind him. Derek tiredly turns his soot-smeared face toward it and squints through the thin haze of steam and smoke still clouding the room. _

_      “Derek!” Stiles, _ **_his_ ** _ Stiles,  bursts into the room. “Jesus, finally,” he pants frantically as he stops to cling to the doorjamb. It’s startlingly ordinary, watching him catch his breath. Stiles and his passionate distaste for running. It throws the strangeness of everything else into vibrant contrast, jarring Derek’s senses. As he stares, he registers a faint, rhythmic beeping echoing through the house. When he tries to focus on the sound, it grows sharper and more distinct. _

_      “Stiles?”  _

_      “I would have been here sooner, but seriously- getting through all this crap...” He waves a hand unspecifically toward the scorched walls and ash. “...Was no cakewalk.” Stiles scans the room with a grimace, bracing his hands on his knees as he wheezes. “You really have a talent for self-flagellation, you know that, right? If you ever decide to go Catholic, I’m pretty sure they’ll just canonize you instantly.” _

_      He moves into the room, between Derek and the window, approaching with a hand stretched out the way you would a scared animal. “This is a dream Der.” The beeping is louder now, as clear and distinct as if it were sounding just next to Derek’s head. “It’s just a dream. You just gotta wake up dude.” _

_     “I know that,” Derek frowns up at him peevishly drawing his brows together. He knows he’s dreaming. But regardless, he’s let himself be sucked in by these spectres. Focusing on Stiles grounds him; makes him realize just how deeply he’s been submerged; drowning slowly in the inky depths of his own mind. He has no idea how long he’s been trapped here, or how he lost track like this. “I...what hap- ” _

_     “Just wake up,” Stiles shushes him, reaching down to cup Derek’s face.  _

_     The headlights blink into existence, blindingly bright, just before they crash through the glass. _

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is killed when he and Derek's vehicle is struck by a drunk driver. Derek begins seeing/hearing Stiles after his death, but it is not clear if he is just suffering from the symptoms of grief-related major depression (such as auditory and visual hallucinations of the deceased) or if he's actually being haunted by Stiles' ghost.
> 
> The Sheriff briefly references his struggles with alcohol-abuse during Claudia's illness and death.
> 
> Characters express concern for Derek's mental well-being and the possibility of self-harm/suicide.


End file.
